


Uzsal

by leaper182



Series: Sketches of the Soul [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Assisted Suicide, Mentions of canon characters - Freeform, Original Character Death(s), Prequel, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, it's rough sorry everyone, semi-alien mindset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 14:32:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14917137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaper182/pseuds/leaper182
Summary: There's always someone watching events unfold.Even if they have no name.They still see, even if no one else does.They still remember.[Prequel to Indelible.]





	Uzsal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elenorasweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenorasweet/gifts).



> Just a few things to try to explain.
> 
> The warning is because somebody self-harms pretty horribly, and it's described. It's not paragraphs of description, but it's there. If you're avoiding it, I don't blame you.
> 
> The translations used in this fic come from [The Dwarrow Scholar](https://dwarrowscholar.wordpress.com/khuzdul/documents-dictionaries/) site -- more specifically, the English to Neo-Khuzdul download. (The big one!) Interestingly enough, the website I had used while I was writing Indelible seems to either not be loading properly or maybe it's not in use anymore?
> 
> For any neo-Khuzdul word you see, try moving your mouse over it to see a translation.
> 
> The mobile view won't give you the definitions, so I'm just going to go ahead and put them in the end notes. Sorry about that!
> 
> To prevent confusion, I'm still using "uzsal" instead of what this dictionary recommends, which is more like "azsul", I believe.
> 
> A big thanks to [Kailthia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kailthia) for the fast beta work. When I got inspired to write this after not having written for this series in so long, I didn't want to lose it.
> 
> I don't know if this will answer any questions, or just raise more, but I hope you guys enjoy it. :D

This dwarf does not have a name anymore. This dwarf is not "I". This one is part of "we".

We are uzsal.

Before the dragon, we were the secret no one spoke of past the family. We were the brother or sister, son or daughter, distant relation or the one looking you in the eye. And we were to be misunderstood, pitied, and politely forgotten when we disappeared in the middle of the night, to wander the Lonely Mountain and not choke on the irony. We were to be hated by Mahal, half of what we should have been.

After the dragon, we knew _why_.

We have many names. Melkel. Zashiri. Marad.

But first, we are uzsal.

***

After the dragon, when the first of us walked together, the whole didn't know what to make of it. They did not share our pain. They did not know. We kept them away, not because we were animals, but because we wouldn't inflict our pain on those who were not us.

The whole shied away from us, flinching away when they figured out what we were.

That was fine, we reasoned. Better to be the cautionary tale than creatures to be admired.

We traveled as a pack, beholden to no one. Decisions were made together, because we were together. We are uzsal.

Thorin came to us, wanting to speak to our "leader".

His father ordered him away. His father understood that we didn't follow any law but the ones we made for ourselves. We have no leader. We are uzsal.

Thorin came back the next day, to speak to our "leader" again. Again, we stared at him, this boy who didn't know.

There was something like pain in his eyes. But it was not our pain.

Thorin came again.

Finally, the eldest of us stepped forward. "What do you want."

"Your people are strong. We would… _I_ would have an alliance with you."

The eldest sighed. " 'You'."

"I'm sorry?" Thorin was not used to being corrected.

"Not 'your people'. 'You'." The eldest looked at all of us, and then back at Thorin. "We are uzsal."

"We are uzsal," the rest of us said. It was the first time we had said it out loud, but it was not the first time we had said it in our hearts.

We felt it. We are uzsal.

Thorin looked at the rest of us, and in his eyes, we saw fear. He was beginning to understand what we were.

We are uzsal.

Thorin cleared his throat, stood to his full height. He stowed away his fear. "I would have an alliance with you all. Our people--"

"Your people." The eldest corrected him, still speaking softly.

Thorin looked... surprised at that. He hesitated, and corrected himself. "...My people are starving and cold. You are warriors--"

"We live," the eldest said.

Thorin's eyes narrowed. "You… live. You live better than us."

"We hunt," the eldest said. "We eat. We sleep. We live."

"I would have you hunt for us," Thorin said. "I would have you protect the families, the children. Would you do that?"

The eldest stared at him. Thorin's back stiffened.

"We are forsaken."

Thorin frowned. "You are still dwarves."

"We are uzsal."

The murmur rose among us again. "We are uzsal."

Thorin looked around at us, feeling just how outnumbered he was. "I will return tomorrow for your answer."

We stared as he returned to his father, his brother, his sister.

The eldest turned to look at us. His pain was our pain. His eyes were our eyes.

"I will hunt for them. I will protect them."

That was the first time that word had been spoken among us.

I.

We looked at each other. We split into two groups. The ones who would protect the whole. And the ones who would continue on their path. We stared at each other.

"We are uzsal," we said.

And then, our words of parting were created that day.

"Mahal, grant us death," the other group said in answer.

If only it were that simple.

***

We remember when he came to us. He was tall, with a black warrior's crest, two axes on his back, his fingers roughened by warfare.

His eyes were our eyes. His pain was our pain.

There is no ceremony when another joins. We walk together as we do, silent and sure. The newest walks with us. We recognize our pain in their eyes. And he, she, they-- whatever they are, they become part of "we". They are us, now. They will leave the same way, whether they know it or not.

***

Sometimes, one of the whole forgets that we are uzsal.

A dwarf with hair like a sunset came to us, demanding that a dwarrowdam return to their family.

The dwarrowdam stared, as we all did. The boy did not know. She was no longer she. She was uzsal. We are uzsal.

The boy cried and was taken away by his mother, belly swollen, a smaller boy with her.

Her name, before she joined us, was Kibila.

***

There had been a time when Mahal didn't hate us. We still yearn for that time. We still try to understand why he turned away from us.

When Mahal's hand guides ours, we are left with blank pages, a dying forge, leather that's only been half-finished. We are left with sorrow, with anger.

All of us are left with pain.

One of us, a thin dwarf who had broken his fingers long ago, before the dragon came, held them up for us to see.

"Mahal is a teacher. The pain is a lesson."

We gave ourselves pain. As the closest thing we could feel to love, we gave each other pain.

A fish hook through a cheek. Skin inkings that are done with painstaking care, which cause tears to run down lined cheeks. One of us had a spike driven through their foot in childhood, and wanted the other to match. Their screams ricocheted through the valley we were in.

The whole fear us.

We are uzsal.

***

There are times when some of us suffer too much pain.

The one who used to be Kibila did. Not the first, not the last, but one that this dwarf remembers.

The dwarf with hair like sunset kept returning, kept taking the dwarrowdam's hand. Kept pleading with her to return to the whole. We stared at him until his mother reclaimed him.

One evening, after Mahal had guided her hand to whittle a flute into uselessness, the one who used to be Kibila screamed.

She took her knife and sliced off her fingers. When she sobbed, she put out her own eyes.

"Mahal, grant me death!"

The one with the warrior's crest rose from his seat at the fire, the pain in his eyes, and used her knife to slit her throat.

"We are uzsal," he murmured, kneeling next to her and smoothing back her hair.

"Mahal, grant us death," we murmured in reply.

***

There are some who leave. The pain leaves their eyes, and they are no longer one of us.

They walk away, and we let them. Because their pain is not our pain. The only difference is that they know what it is to be uzsal.

The one who used to be Dwalin took that name back. He tried to part as friends.

We stared at him.

He hesitated. And then he sighed. "You are uzsal."

"Mahal, grant us death," we replied.

Dwalin hung his head, turned his back, and left.

He is somewhere. His pain is not ours, not anymore. But he knows that pain.

We are uzsal.

Dwalin is not.

**Author's Note:**

> uzsal - "the loneliest"  
> melkel - "half of all halves"  
> zashiri - "fragments of the ruin"  
> marad - "dead" (there should probably be a ^ over the second A, but I'm not sure what the HTML coding for that is, sorry.)


End file.
